The Magic of Deduction
by Bewitching Deductions
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a loner and a freak, as far as others were concerned, even among the wizarding population, but when he meets John Watson and Hermione Granger, he can't help but think that perhaps there's hope for himself. But there isn't much time to dwell on that, as the Golden Trio becomes the Golden Five, and many other strange things happen in the Wizarding World.
1. Chapter One:Cold

The Holmes Manor presided in an isolated part of the Wizarding community of Chudleigh, with looming gates that stretched high and wide around the massive estate. It was a grand domain in its obvious wealth, but it gave one the sense of frigidity when looked upon for an extended time, its grey walls and shadowed gardens leaving you to feel as though you had no place there; and you didn't. No one had a place except for the cold, calculating family that lived there.

The Holmes family was one of the purest lines of wizarding blood in the history books, and it was perhaps one of the proudest and most contemptuous of the magic community, rivaled only by that of the Black family. The members of this household had always been the most power-hungry Slytherins the world was yet to see, until the arrival of a certain curly-haired, brunette boy whose first and foremost wish was to be a pirate.

That boy's name was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.

The eleven-year-old gazed out his second story bedroom window with his crystalline blue-gray eyes with an air of boredom. He had been trapped in his room by that scurvy enemy of his to keep him from shredding the bilge rat's school robes to bits. Of course, that enemy was his older brother, Mycroft. The youngest Holmes huffed his frustration, fogging the glass in front of his face, obstructing his view of the outside world. Was it his fault that the pirate ship he had made for himself of his bed and junior broomstick required black sails? Obviously not. It was only logical that the most fear-striking of pirate ships required such a feature, but Mycroft had failed to see reason.

A mischievous smile lined the boy's face as he recalled the third year Slytherin's reaction, a snicker coursing its way through his body. How he did enjoy messing with Mycroft. There was little things to entertain him in the giant house. His parents never paid much attention to him, and his brother was the only social interaction he had, besides Redbeard.

A warm, genuine smile graced his pale features then. Redbeard was his secret pet. Mummy couldn't know about him. She despised animals of any sort, especially the mangy kind, but Sherlock had found Redbeard one day when out playing in the muggle playground, a place he was never supposed to go, but often went anyway. He remembered the red, shaggy coat bounding towards him, panting happily as it sniffed away at him, the lonely child on the swing. The park had been abandoned, and there wasn't anyone else around.

Sherlock remembered analyzing the dog. _Fur slightly matted, and rather dirty. No collar, but friendly. Used to people. Paws rather calloused, so outside dog, more than likely a stray. _The curly-haired child had grinned with delight as he coaxed the dog back the couple of blocks and brought him to the greenhouse that his parents never went in. It was far enough away from the house that no one would notice the dog's presence.

Well, no one except Mycroft.

Sherlock had had Redbeard (for a pirate had to have a pup with a pirate name) for almost a full week, and was bringing him some leftover roast the house-elves had cooked for dinner, when Mycroft had cornered him in the kitchen.

"You know Mummy won't approve of your mutt," Mycroft had sneered, plucking a speck of dust off his crisp, pressed suit sleeve. It was his usual gray three piece suit, much more formal than any other thirteen-year-old. Then again, he wasn't _any_ thirteen-year-old. In his third year, Mycroft had already managed to secure a position as a prefect, usually a job offered to fifth years.

"It doesn't matter, because she won't find out," the younger Holmes bit back, pushing past the annoyance he called a sibling.

Mycroft only laughed. "You can't honestly think she won't find out. You're even more dense than I thought, brother mine."

"The correct term is denser, imbecile," he retorted. "Why don't you just shove off, Piecroft? Why not see if the house-elves can make you a cake or something."

He stomped out the back door towards the greenhouse then, hearing his brother call after him, "I'm not the imbecile who walks around with dog hair all over him, expecting not to get caught."

He had looked down then, noticing that his black button up shirt and black trousers had indeed betrayed his ownership.

Sherlock sighed, bumping his head against the window, his curls flattening against his forehead. Mycroft could be such a pain in his-

A loud crack could be heard behind him and he whipped around. Standing in the middle of his room, a house-elf looked up at him with wide eyes, draped in a loose cloth that it continued to toy with as it struggled for words.

"Yes, Nimmy, what is it?" the boy asked somewhat cautiously. _Large pupils, nervous twitch, fear of eye-contact. _Whatever the house-elf had to say couldn't be very good.

Nimmy fumbled nervously, "Master Sherlock should be knowing that Master Redbeard has been taken away."

The piercing gray eyes went wide with shock. "What?!"

The small creature only nodded. "Mistress Holmes had him sent to…" it seemed to stuggle with itself a moment before continuing, "a circus, sir."

"A… a circus?"

"Yes, sir. That's what Master Mycroft says to Nimmy."

"Mycroft?" The gray eyes hardened into ice as the name was spat from his mouth like venom.

The little house-elf quivered. "Y-yes, sir. He tells Nimmy of Mistress' actions with Master Redbeard. Mistress was very upset and sent him away to circus. Master Mycroft says to tell you-" but Nimmy was not able to finish speaking as Sherlock was already beating his shoulder against his door.

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock shouted with another slam against the door. His anger was building as he stepped back from the door to hit it again. _How DARE he? How COULD he? _His mind raced with fury as the door was blown from its hinges, and without a thought to his uncontrolled magic, he stormed through the now vacant frame in search of his brother.

He reached the eldest sibling's entrance and watched as it too burst out of his way. He walked in to find a stoic Mycroft with his arms folded with wand in hand, looking down at his brother with what almost seemed like pity.

Sherlock was about to charge when Mycroft flicked his wand at him while muttering, "Immobulus."

Frozen in place, Sherlock glared daggers at his traitorous brother as hot tears stream down his face. "You just couldn't help yourself could you? You always have to be Mummy's favourite," he shouted at the still unmoving Mycroft. "Where is he? Tell me where he is, you puffed-up cockatrice!"

The older shook his head. "Nimmy told you already-"

"Don't even start," Sherlock cut him off. "The circus? Really, Mycroft? You couldn't think of a more convincing lie?"

Mycroft didn't seem fazed by his accusations. "Mother wanted him out. You know how she can be with her temper." He narrowed his eyes, "Not unlike yours."

"What did she do, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded.

The look that Mycroft gave him was telling enough, as the older boy lowered his eyes in shame and perhaps, for a fleeting moment, sadness. "She had him… removed."

Sherlock felt what little part of him that had any warmth freeze over and shatter into bits. The spell his brother had cast lifted and he crumpled to his knees, feeling an emptiness overtake him.

"Caring is not an advantage, brother dear."

The broken boy locked eyes with his betrayer, his own still hot with tears. Mycroft watched as the child's face hardened to an expression of cold hatred.

Sherlock stood up then and threw one last sentence at his brother before leaving. "You're right. It isn't."

The elder brother watched as the younger turned on his heel and left, flying down the stairs and out into the now dusky eve. Mycroft viewed from his window as a long coat and scarf blew in the wind as the curly haired wizard-to-be stormed away from the manor in the direction of that muggle park. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighed. "Whatever will you do with a heart?"

* * *

><p>The Holmes boys sat in their dining room, the morning light pouring in from the tall, majestic windows that lined the room. One sat rather stiffly at one end of the large mahogany table, reading <em>The Daily Prophet<em> and sipping a cup of tea like those much older than he usually did, while the other was at the other end, scowling at his breakfast.

They sat in silence, neither moving from their place. It had been three months since the Redbeard incident, and Sherlock had changed. To anyone but Mycroft, the change would have been overlooked, but the elder Holmes knew his brother. The childlike spirit had died, and the only heart the entire Holmes Manor had ever known seemed lost in the boys now frosted glare and constantly calculating eyes. It was there, Mycroft was sure, but it had been squelched by the loss of a… dare he say it… _friend… _he sneered as he thought of the word… and his own betrayal. Of course the two of them had had spats before, but this had wounded Sherlock, and it had left an ugly scar that would only fester into a boy who trusted no one. _Perhaps it's better, _he thought glancing up from his reading at the boy in question. _He needs to use his mind. Emotions only lead to muddled thinking and pain. It's better this way._

Sherlock continued glaring at his eggs benedict with something akin to disdain. Food was a waste of his time. He was only here to collect the morning mail, but the dratted house-elves seemed insistent that he eat something.

"You can't glower away your meal, Sherlock," came Mycroft's voice, pulling him out of his reverie. "You eat it, not have a staring contest with it."

Sherlock only narrowed his eyes at his brother and returned his grimace to the plate before him. "Where's the bloody owl, anyway?"

"Expecting something, are we?" Mycroft asked, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

"You know perfectly well I am," came the biting reply. The brunette ran a hand through his rugged brown locks in frustration. "You've done the calculations yourself. Estimating the time it takes your owls from Hogwarts to arrive yearly, I should be receiving my acceptance letter today." He stabbed a piece of toast with enough ferocity to nearly crack the delicate, serpent-engraved china.

The young prefect chuckled at the annoyed boy, a glint of mischief in his eye. "Perhaps you aren't getting one. They may have heard tell of the trouble you cause just around here, keeping the household awake with horrid violin playing and experiments that nearly blow up the house."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, tugging annoyedly at his blue dressing-gown. "You may desist with your ramblings, Piecroft. Still on the diet? I noticed there's no raspberry scones and custard this morning." His stab worked as Mycroft glared and looked rather longingly at his plain cup of tea.

Looking around the overly decorated dining room, Sherlock knew every inch of it, from the silver and green drapes to the pearl-white molding with the family crest carved into it every 5.001 meters (whatever idiot had measured had done a poor job). His eyes found the window the post usually arrived through and low and behold, there sat an owl, awaiting entry as it rapt its beak against the pane.

A house-elf snapped into view, allowing the bird to fly in and drop a letter into Sherlock's awaiting palm, the red seal already confirming his earlier deductions. He ripped open the envelope, only to have a glare interrupt his eyesight. "Ridiculous windows," he muttered as he waved his hand and all the curtains snapped shut, leaving the chandelier to light the room.

"Your wandless abilities are quite astounding." Mycroft said without looking up from the _Prophet. _He flicked his wand and opened one curtain directly behind him to grant him more reading light.

"And your ability to state the obvious is equally so," the eleven-year-old shot back before returning to his letter. It was exactly as he'd been expecting, nearly identical to Mycroft's from two years previous apart from the addressee change.

He stood up then and began to walk from the room when a voice inquired, "And just where are you going, dear brother?"

"To change. And then the fireplace."

Mycroft raised a single chestnut eyebrow. "Why is that?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Don't be daft, Mycroft. I have supplies that I need to obtain." He began to walk again when the laughter behind him made him halt.

"Dear brother, you must be joking!" Mycroft looked at Sherlock then, an amused glint in his blue eyes. "An eleven-year-old walking around Diagon Alley alone?"

The younger boy scowled. "I do not joke." He stomped away as Mycroft was left shaking his head. He would show Mycroft he was not _just_ an eleven-year-old.


	2. Chapter Two: Wizards and Skillets

**Author's Note:** I've been asked if this is going to be a Sherlock/Hermione pairing, and I can happily say yes! Thank you for the response this has gotten. Many adventures await this tale beyond the walls of Hogwarts as well! Expect years after Hogwarts!

* * *

><p>John Watson sat on the worn plaid, plush couch in his home in Battersea. It was a small house, barely big enough for the family of four living there. In the small living area, the blue-gray eyes of the small boy were focused on a television set in the middle of the room. The telly's picture was fuzzy that day, watching as he could see his sandy-haired reflection flickering back at him, and John had a good idea why. He remembered the first time it had happened.<p>

_He had been about eight years old, sitting on the couch. The setting sun had barely peeked through the window as it slipped below the line of houses outside, and his mother was sitting in the armchair, sewing up some of Harry's old stockings that she had to wear in school. Her nimble fingers worked as she hummed quietly to herself. She often did that; humming quiet tunes to herself, often ones she made up, as she worked on one task or another. John had been doing his mathematics, counting by fives and tens, while Harry was supposed to be doing her spelling lesson. Harry was three years older than her brother and always made sure to remind "little John" of that. The brother in question had gazed over his sister's shoulder where she sat on the floor, only to find that she had been doodling odd pictures, which had him giggling quite loudly. _

_ Harry had looked up then at her brother, flushing as she tried to shush him, not wanting Mum to know she hadn't been working, but eventually the laughter became contagious, spreading to her as she laughed along with him._

_ Mrs. Watson had given her children a loving look for a moment. They got along rather poorly most occasions, yelling that one child had hurt the other one's feelings or broke something, but when they got along it was a magical thing to behold. _

_ "What on earth is so funny?" she inquired of the duo still shaking with mirth, but her question only caused a second wave of merriment to strike them._

_ The mother shook her head when she heard a loud clattering come from the backdoor in the kitchen and she froze slightly. John had noticed, stopping in his laughter, and watched as his mother paled and rose, going into the kitchen herself. Her footsteps were hesitant, and she disappeared behind the door. _

_ The two children were deafly silent as they heard it; heard _him_. Their father shouted loudly, and Harry immediately stood and left the room in retreat for her bedroom, leaving her brother behind. John listened as the voice of his father got louder and louder, abuse projecting from his mouth even louder than the underground. An audible smack could be heard and John knew right away; he was hitting her. More shouting and hitting could be heard until the sound of crying leaked from the kitchen._

_ And that was when the telly kicked on, as if on cue with the first fall of John's tears. The black screen filled with static and flipped black again, flickering back and forth and creating the loud static sound. The momentum of the flickering and the volume of the static seemed to increase with every shaky breath the small boy took. He was angry. He was angry and scared for his mum. Harry had told him about this before, but until that point, his mother had usually managed to get him to go to his room before now, wanting to shield him. _

_ Heavy footsteps could be heard coming towards the door, and in stepped Hamish Watson, his wrinkled maintenance uniform reeking of whiskey. The drunken man took two large steps toward John, towering over him. The glassed over eyes looked down at the eight-year-old in army men pajamas, swaying on his feet. The television static blared even louder, catching the man's attention as he swiveled his head around to look at it._

_ "Fuckin' bloo'y thing," the father slurred as he kicked it hard, stumbling slightly. He glanced around blearily as if forgetting something before trudging to the hallway and into his bedroom. An audible plop onto the bed could be heard from where John was still frozen; where he stayed until snores poured from the direction of his father, combining with the sounds of his mother's sobs. _

This was just what was happening again three years later, just as it happened every time his father came home, drunken and yelling and _abusive_. And not only to mother, but to Harry, and he'd beaten John on several occasions, and each time, the television would flash on and fill with static and flicker. The youngest Watson had tried talking to his sister about it, but she just told him he was being ridiculous and to stop talking about it. She never talked about their father.

The abuse continued to occur, and they all acted as though they never happened, all suffering in their own ways because of it. But it was the beatings of his mother and the treatment of his sister that the little sandy blonde could no longer handle, and as the television began again, he stood up, eleven years old and brewing with anger, marching over to the kitchen. Waves of anger seemed to radiate from him, and when he opened the door to find his mother on the floor, on her knees with her hands up to shield her face, her caramel hair wet from her watery, brown eyes and sticking to her soft face, something in him snapped.

His father met his glare then, and growled, "Wha're you lookin' at, boy? Did I fuckin' say you could come in 'ere?"

"Get away from her," John said, his voice low and rough from his own crying before.

"Wha' did you jus' say to me?" Hamish's eyes flashed dangerously, bloodshot and bleary.

"Get. Away. From my mother." John was shaking, a power he didn't understand seeming to course through his every limb. The empty space around him visibly quivered. Linda Watson looked up then, her eyes wide as they looked at her son.

"Fuckin' lil' bastard!" the plastered Watson yelled, the whiskey obviously blinding him to the supernatural happening around the "bastard" mentioned. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill ya, ya lil' shi-"

_CLANG!_ The skillet that had been hanging on the wall had just zoomed across the room to crash into the back Watson's head, and the inebriated abuser crumpled to the floor unconscious.

All was silent and still, neither John or his mother moving, the skillet still hanging suspended in midair, nothing holding it up but John's own shocked will. Moments passed and when John finally had calmed, the skillet clattered to the ground, and sobs of exhaustion and disbelief ripped through him. _What just happened? What did I just do?_

Tears fell silently from his face as he stared into the distance, unseeing, when warm, soft hands touched his face. He looked up into his mother's chocolate eyes, looking for answers. She looked back down at him with so much emotion; shock, love, and grief etched every line of her face as she pulled him into her embrace.

John was panicky. When his father would wake, he would kill John, and the young boy had no idea if he could do what he'd just done again, or even how he'd done it in the first place. He was shaking still, fear finally gripping him. Why did he do that?

_For mum. _He reminded himself. _For mum and for Harry. _

His mother pulled back at arm's length to look at her son again before glancing over to the sight of her husband knocked out on the floor.

Tugging on John's arm, Linda started towards the door towards the living room, saying in a shaky voice, "Come with me."

John didn't hesitate to do so as he followed her to his own room, and watched as she pulled his travelling trunk from the closet, packing it with his clothes and personal belongings that she could fit. "Where are we going?" he managed to ask as she closed its lid with a final thud, latching it.

"Your aunt's house."

"Aunt?" He had an aunt? He'd never known he had an aunt.

She looked up at him, understanding his confusion but not acknowledging it. She would explain on the way.

"Go tell your sister to pack her things as well."

John only nodded and left hurriedly to find Harry in her room, sitting on her bed with her knees to her chest. When she looked up to meet John's eyes, she immediately felt dread. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Mum says get packed."

Harriet's face screwed up into that of worried confusion. "John, what happened?"

John couldn't really bring himself to say what had happened when he wasn't so sure himself. It had happened too fast.

"Just hurry. I'll explain later."

She nodded and pulled out her own trunk, setting to work. She was one to joke a lot and play around when work was involved, but when it came to serious situations, John knew that Harry was a force to be reckoned with, and she would do anything she had to right away.

When he got back to his room, Mum had already gotten his trunk out. He looked around for anything of importance. How long would he be gone?

He spotted the photograph of his mum and Harry at her school festival two years ago. He picked it up, its wooden frame cheap but firm in his hand. Both of them were smiling so sincerely, Harry's caramel hair in its usual ponytail and his mother's curled gently to the side, their eyes alight with the joy they were having. It was one of the few days he remembered them so happy.

_It's because _he_ wasn't there._

He stowed the picture into his pocket and turned around, refusing to look back as he went back to Harry's room. She had just finished packing and was trying to lift the heavy trunk.

"Here, let me," John said as he hurriedly grabbed one of the handles to help her. The two of them lugged it through the hallway into the living room towards the door to the garage. As they passed the entryway to the kitchen, the door was still slightly ajar. Harry looked over and gasped at the sight of her father's figure on the floor with a skillet just off to the side. It was obvious he hadn't just passed out.

"Wha-" she started to say but was cut off by John tugging his end of the trunk for them to hurry.

"Come on."

She looked back again as they brought the trunk to the garage, shaking her head.

When they reached the car, Linda was there, a phone in her hand.

"Thank you, Maisy. You don't know if… yes, of course…" She looked at John. "He doesn't know. Hamish was always against… I know it doesn't matter… yes, yes, I'll be there soon… good bye."

She hung up the receiver to the base that they kept in the garage, on Hamish's workbench. She helped the two of them heft the trunk into the car next to John's, and they silently filed into the car.

The drive was silent for a long while, all of them looking in every other direction, not knowing how to begin. It was Harry who finally spoke up. "How did it happen?"

John shrugged, "I lost it. I saw him hitting…" he met his mother's eyes in the rearview. "I couldn't take it anymore. And I hit him."

Harry stared at him wide-eyed, only something didn't add up. John's height didn't add up. He was small, even for an eleven-year-old. Compared to Harry, who was fourteen, he was still only to her chest, and father was tall; really tall.

"How'd you… reach his head?"

John looked down at his hands in his lap that chose this moment to be particularly interesting. "I didn't. The skillet did it for me."

His sister was about to voice her confusion when their mother intervened, "He used magic."

Harriet sat there with a dumbfounded stare, looking from her mother to John, her brother staring at her mother as if she had smacked him.

"You knew?" he asked in almost a whisper.

She shook her head. "Not until tonight."

"Wait, hang on, someone please explain. John used _magic_?" Harry asked.

"I didn't know what it was," John voiced. "I told you about the TV-"

"That wasn't-"

"What about the TV?" Mum stopped Harry.

John continued looking at his hands. "Each time he came home… that way…, and I would get angry, the telly would turn on and go crazy. At first I thought it was a coincidence, but it happened every time." He looked up again, trying to be brave. "What do you know, mum?"

"About… magic?"

John nodded.

She sighed and looked out amongst the other driving cars along the road. "My sister, Maisy, was gifted with magic. A witch born to a 'muggle' family." She shook her head at some memory. "Muggles are non-magical people."

"There are more people like me?" her son asked nervously.

"Many," Linda said as she turned the car left. "There's an entire society of them in London, and a school for them in Scotland. Maisy was how we found out. Muggles aren't allowed to know unless they are family to a witch or wizard to protect them."

John sat silent for a moment, trying to process everything.

"So… I'm… I'm a…"

"Yes, John," his mom said as they pulled up to a large, odd house on the countryside. She met his eyes in the rearview again.

"You're a wizard."


End file.
